


This fragile heart of mine

by Fatale (femme)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Crack, I Don't Even Know, no bestiality I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:19:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>collarkink prompt: Satchmo is a man, cursed to be a dog until he meets his soulmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This fragile heart of mine

[](http://collarkink.livejournal.com/profile)[**collarkink**](http://collarkink.livejournal.com/) prompt: [Satchmo is a man, cursed to be a dog until he meets his soulmate.](http://collarkink.livejournal.com/3437.html?thread=4387437#t4387437)

 

This fragile heart of mine  
Satchmo/Neal  
PG  
WC: Approx. 650  
A/N - I'm sorry, I'm sorry. No bestiality, though, which is not a phrase I ever thought I'd have to utter.

 

 

Satchmo has been a dog for five years. His left hip aches in way it didn’t a year ago and he’s reminded, once again, that for every human year, he ages seven.

He barely even remembers being human these days. What he knows, he can count on one hand, not even using his extra carpal pad: he was some kind of investigator, he knows he was following a witch -- a man witch, not even a hot girl witch like on TV -- and that he broke into the witch’s apartment and bam, lights out.

He has vague memories of disorientation, wandering the streets until being taken home by Peter and Elizabeth Burke. They named him Satchmo, which wasn’t like, the worst name ever -- he could have been Fluffy, Rover, any number of humiliating things -- and that being a dog didn’t suck as much as he thought it would.

Easy food, a warm bed, lots of walks and fresh air. The food alone would have clenched it -- he’s always been kind of a shit cook, living on microwave TV dinners. Typical bachelor stuff. When he was human, scurvy had been a very real and present danger.

As the years pass, his memories of being human fade, edges going soft and blurry, like a photograph overexposed and slightly out of focus.

 

\---

 

He meets Neal Caffrey when he’s four. Neal scratches behind his ears, drops a quick kiss to his muzzle and hey, he smells nice. Satchmo licks his face, sheds all over his turtleneck to show his appreciation.

Two weeks later, Neal buys him a Kong dog toy. It’s too small for his size, obviously Neal’s never had a dog before, and Satchmo chews it up, eats the whole damn thing and has a horrible bellyache for three days. He doesn’t hold it against Neal, though.

Neal slips him pot roast under the table. It’s dry and overcooked, and his stomach still feels achy and bloated, but it’s from Neal, so he eats it anyway.

 

\---

 

Neal’s over when lightening cracks across the sky and thunder makes the windowpanes shake, shudder in their frames. Peter and Elizabeth go to bed, but Neal stays up late watching black and white movies.

Against his will, a low, plaintive whine escapes his throat. Satchmo thinks of the bathtub upstairs, longs to hunker down in its solid confines, but Neal hushes him, wraps a long arm around his neck, and buries his face in Satchmo’s fur.

They stay like that for the rest of the storm.

 

\---

 

Peter and Neal are watching an old video -- honest to god _Betamax_ \-- of a blonde woman speaking to Neal. Peter and Neal go outside, strike up some kind of truce and as Peter re-enters the house, Satchmo takes advantage of the open door and slips out to see Neal.

Neal is staring up at the night sky, fingers clenched tightly on his knees, his mouth a tense, unhappy line. Satchmo idly wonders where Neal goes when he’s so far away, too far for Satchmo to reach him.

Satchmo wonders if Neal thinks about him as much as he thinks about Neal.

He noses his hand, hesitantly, until Neal looks down and smiles. Satchmo lays his head on Neal’s thigh, muscles solid and warm beneath his muzzle, slowly relaxing by increments under Satchmo’s watchful gaze.

 

\---

 

He lays in the afternoon sun, letting slanted golden rays warm him, drowsy, lazily daydreaming. He thinks of blue eyes, brown hair, long fingers ghosting down his sides. The sharp rasp of stubble beneath his tongue.

His heart beats eighty-four times per minute, far faster than when he was a man, but for the first time in nearly eight years, it slows, expands in his chest with something he can’t put a name to and he feels --

He feels human again.

 

 

 

 

The end.

 


End file.
